One Hundred Moments
by PwnedByPineapple
Summary: A collection of 100-theme challenge oneshots. Can be read in any order. 068. Unsettling Revelations: In which muckraking is discussed, and Alfred and his twenty-sixth President share a moment.
1. Introduction

**Title:** One Hundred Moments  
><strong>Author:<strong> PwnedByPineapple  
><strong>Summary:<strong> _A collection of 100-theme challenge oneshots. Can be read in any order._  
><strong>RatingsWarning(s):** Will vary - nothing above T.

**Disclaimer: This fangirl owns nothing.**

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><p><strong>001. Introduction<br>**_He knows not the consequences, and so it begins. HetaOni-based. Small spoilers._

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><p>Italy could not have known the consequences of overhearing the rumors. He couldn't have predicted the results of acting on them, of speaking those fateful words to America. He didn't know how much his world would change because of it, how much his very being would be shaken. He had no knowledge of dark and bloodthirsty creatures that lurked in shadowed rooms, no understanding of broken time and bloody memories and crimson numbers. He was not yet aware of his true limits, of the lengths to which he was willing to go. And he had not yet known the utter despair and fear and pain or the selfless love and friendship and determination that would completely transform his world as he knew it.<p>

He knew none of this, and so, with a few whispered words and the inevitable pull of fate, of the unknown, it all began.


	2. Obsession

**006. Obsession  
><strong>_The nations stage an intervention. Overdramatic theatrics occur. A battle ensues. Immaturity is rampant._

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><p>England studied the assembled nations, his thick eyebrows arched in barely checked annoyance. It was the third day of the world meeting, and once again, there were two notable absences among his fellows. Under better circumstances, he would have voted to continue the meeting regardless, and if the fools couldn't be bothered to drag their arses here to share their opinions, then that was their problem. But economically, things had been rather precarious as of late, and both of them, especially that lumbering idiot who was too damn big for his own good, needed to be here to contribute their input.<p>

It was time to take action.

As soon as everyone else had gathered, England stood, slamming his hands down on the table. He may not have been an empire anymore, but he knew how to command attention, and the customary arguments and raucous conversations ceased for a moment; all eyes turned to the irate Englishman. England waited until he had captured full attention - or, at least, the most attention he was going to get with _this _moronic lot - then spoke.

"I propose," he announced, "that we suspend this meeting for the time being in order to _retrieve _those idiots not present."

"They are so _irresponsible_," China sighed. "Where did we go wrong?"

England could relate. He and China shared a moment of common ground, shaking their heads sadly, and then Germany rumbled, "I second the proposal. All in favor?"

The majority of hands were raised, and England nodded in satisfaction. "Very good. We'll need an extraction team, however. I know from experience that the two of them can become unstable when this happens. Therefore, I'm bringing the strongest among us. Germany, Russia, China, and... Canada. That makes five."

Everyone frowned at the final name, and many heads turned, trying to locate its owner. They jumped when they found him visible, already standing among the others who'd been called. "Canada?" some echoed doubtfully.

England exchanged a dark, knowing glance with the quiet Canadian. "Trust me," the Englishman said ominously. "We'll need him."

* * *

><p>The locked door was very unceremoniously kicked down.<p>

Not that the two currently enamored of the TV screen actually noticed. Their eyes were glued to the game, and their fingers moved furiously. It looked like they hadn't taken care of themselves in days.

England entered behind Russia, who'd done the kicking; the Englishman stepped past the large Russian, and his brows drew together thunderously at the sight of the gamers. He would have expected as much of America, but Japan... Japan should have known better.

"Oi!" he barked, striding forward. "Enough of this!"

As his backup filed into the room and flanked him, England moved in front of the TV. Before either of his victims had time to protest, he unplugged the entire gaming system, and the screen went black. Japan gasped in horror as America howled in anger. "You _jerk_!" the younger nation cried. "I hadn't saved in an hour! I'd just beaten the second-to-last boss! Now I have to fight him all over again!"

"You will _not_," England replied, far more calmly than he looked. He bent down and, displaying unusual aptitude with technology, removed the disc from the system, pocketing it. "You won't be getting this back anytime soon."

"Give it back!" America yelled.

Japan's eyes narrowed dangerously, and he slowly rose to his feet. "You are making a mistake, England," he said quietly. "Are you prepared to face the consequences?"

England regarded him coolly for a moment, and then his expression changed. A crooked grin spread across his face, cocky and confident and not at all in keeping with his normal demeanor. His head cocked, and a predatory gleam came into his eyes. "Challenge accepted," he said, sneering.

Those not currently possessed by strange emotions or addictions realized what was happening - a very rare occurrence in which a nation embraced a past self long buried. England's pirate persona was surging forth in response to the rise of Japan's normally quite dormant ninja self, and the atmosphere between them was roiling, charged. The sane nations knew to steer clear.

Unfortunately, America was not so sane at the moment. He looked about ready to charge England in order to regain his game, and the others wisely decided to intervene lest he make the situation even worse.

America suddenly found Canada standing in his way. The quieter twin was unusually assertive, though nothing had outwardly changed in his posture - he held Kumajirou to his chest with both arms wrapped around the small polar bear. But his feet were planted firmly, and his shoulders were squared; he appeared utterly calm. "Brother," he said quietly.

"Brother," America returned, narrowing his eyes. "You're in the way."

"I know," Canada replied evenly. "And I'm not moving until you come to your senses."

"Not a smart move, little bro."

"Isn't it?" As if on some unspoken command, Russia, Germany, and China moved behind Canada; the four of them made an impressive wall of intimidation. This was reinforced when Kumajirou suddenly leapt from Canada's arms and grew to full size, making the room seem smaller in comparison.

America didn't look fazed. "Playing dirty, I see."

"I don't know _why _you expect me to play fair," Canada responded, hand resting on Kumajirou's right side. "You should know better."

The air between the North American brothers was almost as charged as it had been between England and Japan. The three nations who were still more or less sane felt rather nervous - well, except for Russia, of course.

"How many times has this happened?" Germany sighed.

"Too many," China replied, warily eyeing the twins, who seemed to now be engaged in a massive stare-down. "It's always some new game, aru." He huffed in disapproval. "Children."

"But this is fun, da?" Russia said, smiling pleasantly. "It is fun to watch them all fight."

"Only for _you_, Russia!" Germany said, annoyed. "I am very tired of all these games."

All of a sudden, Canada reached into his jacket and pulled out a wrapped Big Mac. Alfred's eyes widened hungrily, and Canada smiled. "That's right. Snap out of it, Al." He waved it in front of America, whose eyes seemed to lose their video game madness. He blinked confusedly.

"Hey," he said, bemused. "What are you guys doing here? Why is your bear so big, Mattie? Ooh, is that a Big Mac? Gimme!" He snatched the hamburger from Canada's grasp and began to greedily unwrap it.

The other three stared in amazement as Canada smiled to himself in satisfaction. "How-?" Germany asked, looking impressed.

"He always brings a stash to world meetings," Canada answered. "This was Plan A. I'm just glad we didn't have to resort to Plan B." He stroked Kumajirou's fur, and the bear was suddenly small again, leaping back into his owner's arms.

Meanwhile, England and Japan had been engaged in full-on battle. Weapons weren't 'officially' allowed at world meetings, but the nations brought them anyway. Japan had procured his ninja blade, no doubt having stashed it in the room along with the video games and America's Big Macs, and England had his gentleman's sword, cleverly concealed in a cane he kept hidden in his coat. It was nothing compared to a pirate's cutlass or a ninja's sword, but England's skill made up for it. He and Japan were a whirlwind and had already damaged half the room, and they weren't showing signs of stopping in the near future.

"What do we do about them?" Canada asked.

America, whose mouth was full of hamburger, gaped at the two battling nations. "Whoa! Is that _Iggy_? No way! He's not badass!"

"Chew with your mouth closed, America," China sighed. He surveyed the two fighters with a frown. "I would suggest letting it wear off, but they'll destroy the entire room if they're not stopped."

"I will stop them," Russia volunteered suddenly. "Be prepared to restrain them."

He reached into his coat and pulled out an iron pipe. Hefting it and giving it a few preparatory spins, he strode forward and brought it swinging up just as the two swords arched to meet again. They struck the pipe with a ringing clang, and Russia, with speed that belied his size, twisted the pipe, taking the momentum of the sword swings and shoving them back at England and Japan. They both stumbled, knocked off balance by the surprise intervention, and the others then moved forward, on them in seconds.

America's eyes were wide at the stream of expletives that surged from England's mouth as the Englishman was held back by his former colonies. Germany and China had restrained Japan, who was putting up as much of a fight as England. It was uncanny, really, how violent they were.

However, Japan was the first to calm down. It seemed that as soon as his adrenaline stopped pumping, the past persona vanished. He looked in confusion at the nations holding him, unease flashing across his face. "What happened?" he asked nervously. "This is- this is very uncomfortable."

China and Germany released him with sighs of relief. And England, well - he didn't calm down as easily.

At least, not until America said, as loud as possible, "My English is better than your English!"

England's eyes cleared at once. "You impertinent little-!" he began, in a more normal rage this time. Then he stopped, frowning. "Er... why do you two have my arms like that?"

Canada let go at once, but America wasn't quite done. "Oh my gosh, Iggy, you were so COOL!" he said excitedly, giving his older brother a congratulatory hug. England's expression was quite priceless, and if Japan had been in a less confused state of mind, he might have taken a picture.

"What _are_ you going on about, lad?" England scowled ferociously. "Get off!"

America let him go quickly, perhaps remembering how dangerous he'd been on moments earlier. He beamed at England. "You were totally like a pirate, dude!" he said happily.

England's eyes grew wide. "Wait... what? Oh, no... I didn't..."

"You did," Canada said grimly.

England dropped his head into his hands, turning an interesting color, and America snickered.

"Don't worry. Japan did the same. It was very fun to watch," Russia said pleasantly. Japan had already curled in on himself, apologizing. He looked so mortified that the others took pity on him and turned on the one person who did not look properly ashamed.

"_You_," Germany said, rounding on America, who stopped his snickering. "This is the _last _time we put up with your silly video game addiction!"

"You missed two meetings, aru!" China exclaimed.

"You need to stop playing those things, Al," Canada said reasonably.

America suddenly looked furtive. "I guess you're right," he said, edging towards the door.

Everyone except Japan and Russia glared at him suspiciously, and England's head shot up. He reached into his pocket in sudden haste and came up empty. "It's gone!" he shouted. "You stole it back!"

America bolted from the room, cradling the precious video game close to him. "Yeah, well, you don't get hugs for free, Iggy!" he yelled gleefully over his shoulder and was gone.

In another rage, England pursued, and sighing, everyone else followed.


	3. Illogical

**079. Illogical  
><strong>_Francis contemplates that frustrating individual known as Arthur Kirkland. An analysis of sorts and very one-sided FrUK._

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><p>There's a place and time to persist and to give up, and no one is better at reading the signs that indicate this than Francis Bonnefoy. The language of love is one he speaks fluently, in all its verbal and bodily dialects, and he understands the difference between a successful advance and one that is scorned with finality. He knows how to give up, despite whispers to the contrary. He knows when to let go.<p>

Never once have his efforts in regards to one Arthur Kirkland met with success, and he _knows_ that it past time to let go. And yet... in spite of this knowledge, his fluency, Francis finds himself trying again and again.

He hates the man. Oh, there's no doubt about that. There has never been a singular individual so frustrating, so utterly maddening and pretentious and wearisome and a thousand other negative adjectives, as Arthur Kirkland. In the past, Francis has hated Arthur with unimaginable passion bordering on obsession, but it wasn't a constant thing, and indeed, it's been going on so long that the bizarre state of his feelings no longer resembles hatred as defined by normal, human standards.

And therein lies the allure, the inescapable puzzle that draws Francis in and entangles him so thickly that it is impossible to break free.

"All this tension, _Angleterre_~! Things would be so much better if you would just sleep with me."

An angry thud. Arthur slams his notebook closed as he rises from the table, his thick eyebrows drawing thunderously together. He thinks it's all a game. And there _is _something inordinately fun in getting a rise out of the Englishman; he's far too easy.

"Not even _if _hell freezes over, frog," Arthur spits out.

Always a game, a game of words, even thought it is _not_... at least, not to Francis's mind. It's an enigma that constantly seeks to entrap the Frenchman; with anyone else, he might have given up long ago. Not so with this man.

"How witty," Francis says. "Do you have a book of these retorts, or do you make them up at night, when you are _alone _in bed?"

Arthur's eyes flash. For a moment, Francis thinks that a stream of biting words will follow, but instead, Arthur sweeps the notebook up under one arm and attempts to stalk away, following the others out of the meeting room.

Francis moves quickly, steps into the doorway, and his movements are deceptively nonchalant. He leans against the frame, effectively blocking the other, even though he knows that his physical body is not nearly enough. Arthur could easily deck him; Francis almost anticipates it. But the British lion has developed remarkable restraint over the past century or so, and at first, Arthur only tenses all over, like cornered prey. One can almost imagine hackles raising to match blazing green eyes, and Francis takes a moment to admire his rival, his gaze tracing, appreciative. Viewed through eyes of true hatred notwithstanding, he's seen Arthur at his finest, when the man was powerful, majestic, the strongest empire in the world. Yet even in the present, he can compare to that past self. Even in this smaller form, his body still holds defiance, power, is still tantalizingly strong and perfect. Those hideous eyebrows even have a certain charm about them. And that is only the physical.

"Get out of my way, bastard," Arthur growls through gritted teeth.

Francis grins lazily. He isn't sure why he's choosing to antagonize Arthur like this today, but it's commonplace enough that Arthur seems to think little of it. And perhaps that's the reason. Perhaps Francis wants him to think more.

"I see no reason to," he responds. "You're quite rude, _mon Angleterre_."

"_I'm _rude?" Arthur demands. "Speak for yourself! If I cared more, I could write a list."

Francis narrows his eyes. Those words strike him in the wrong way - it seems he was right about his guess, that this is why he's choosing to deliberately provoke Arthur so. He's almost disappointed in himself - after all, pathetically seeking attention is not exactly the kind of thing a true lover should be proud of - but he doesn't care. He wants it too much. Wants Arthur too much.

"Then why don't you?" he says quietly, suggestively. "Tell me all the reasons why you hate me."

He sees the fight leave Arthur's tensed muscles, the tension abandon his scowling face, but it's replaced with something worse: coldness. Arthur now looks at him shrewdly, and Francis knows that he's blown his own cover, through his own weakness. He knows what's coming next; he knows Arthur too well.

"Don't start that, frog," Arthur says venomously, scornfully. "Don't go playing at love and hate like a child. You know _nothing_ of how it works, do you understand me? It isn't a bloody game. You don't use it to play with people. And you _certainly_ won't get the chance to play it with _me_."

There it is, that acid tongue that Francis has encountered countless times. It never fails to surface when he pushes the wrong buttons, and it never fails to make him angry. Arthur is just half-right. Francis knows of love, has known it for a long time, but he also knows that the kind Arthur means, the kind Francis recalls, is not like the kind he feels now.

But, he reasons, they are both love, right? Just different forms.

"Of course, Arthur," he says, just as scornful. "Because you know everything there is to know about it. That must be why you did so well at keeping your family together."

It's a low blow, and he knows it. As such, he expects the punch, and he doesn't even retaliate. He takes it, feeling his rival's fist connect with his jaw line, and he falls back with it to lessen the impact. He almost laughs as he does - there, there is the other half of the puzzle, the sticky side of the web.

Arthur is such a contradiction. He makes absolutely no sense however you look at him, and yet there he is - unimaginably exasperating and beautifully, utterly fascinating. Francis can't even begin to imagine what rests within the Englishman's mind, and he wants to delve into that, to understand. He wants to press even harder, to make Arthur realize that his attraction is not merely physical, but he doesn't. Something holds him back, something he reluctantly acknowledges. Francis holds onto the door, welcoming the stinging in his jaw as Arthur steps past him, and he doesn't say a word.

The Englishman pauses to give him an icy glance. "You're one to talk," he says. "How have the meaningful relationships in your life gone, hmm?"

Francis nearly winces. Arthur's always had to have the biting last word. The Frenchman watches as Arthur leaves; the other's back is rigid, straight, proud. So aristocratic. So arrogant. He hasn't changed. He's a mystery, a damnable puzzle that Francis cannot even begin to solve, and though he wants to attempt it, wants to see how far he can get, he gives up... for now. It's an irritating little thing called respect that holds him back, and for now, he yields.

After all, there are always later times.

Francis straightens and rubs his jaw, surprised to find it slightly bruised but not bleeding. After a moment, he laughs. So... Arthur still fancies himself a gentleman.

As if. God, how he hates that Brit.

Shaking his head, giving in to surrender, he leaves in search of a drink.


	4. Rivalry

**004. Rivalry  
><strong>_Sometimes, Alfred just wants to take his politicians and hit them over the head with their own pigheadedness. Historical crack. General butchery of actual events and people._

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><p>It was a sunny morning outside of Kingston, Tennessee, sometime in 1803, and oddly enough, Alfred F. Jones's disposition did not match that of the weather.<p>

"Oh, _come on_, you guys," he pleaded. "Don't do this."

It was utterly frustrating. He'd come to briefly check on how things were going in Tennessee, only to find the recipient of his company about to engage himself in a duel, of all things.

"I'm sorry, Alfred," said John. "I cannot with any honor turn this down."

John Sevier. A fighter of Indians and the British, considered a hero by many. A man who'd raised some merry hell with that Franklin business and was now the governor of Tennessee yet again. Aging, but still quite the figure.

In contrast to him was one Andrew Jackson. Humble beginnings, but quickly proving himself nonetheless. Once a frontier lawyer, then both a Representative and a Senator, now a judge on the Tennessee Supreme Court. Younger, but no less striking.

Not to mention the man had a penchant for violence. Good God, did he ever.

The duel was about to commence. Alfred was about to tear his own hair out. Honestly, nothing was so frustrating as this. He had things to do, places to be, but he could not just abandon the state of affairs like this. Dueling was so _stupid_, and he was determined to diffuse the situation even if he got himself shot in the process.

"I'm surprise a treasonous coward such as you even bothered showing up!" Jackson called out scornfully, from where he was consulting with his second.

Sevier's eyes flashed dangerously; Alfred didn't think the word 'treasonous' sat so well with him, never mind that it had been dropped. "Why turn down a chance to best a backwater _fraud _like you?" he returned, tone dripping with acid.

"Fraud, am I? I have no use for an old fool who can't take defeat!"

"Better an old fool than a cheat!"

"Better a cheat than a lout would insult a woman!"

They sounded like a pair of children. Alfred was almost amazed. How was it even possible that he was the most mature individual present? "Enough!" he said in exasperation, as Sevier reached to his own second for a pistol and took a step forward, clearly ready to begin this duel now. "Stop this! That's an _order_!"

His voice rose several notches, ringing around the area, and the two men paused, both looking to him. One did not easily deny one's own country, especially when said country seemed frustrated enough to place himself directly in between the belligerents. Alfred held both hands out, as if he could physically stop them with the motion alone.

"Alfred," Jackson said, trying for patience in his voice. He didn't achieve it very well. "This is a matter of _honor_. The man..."

"I don't care what he did," Alfred interrupted, making full use of his stature. "The honorable thing is to ignore him. I don't suppose you're very good at that, but listen..." He looked between the two of them, glaring. "You are both important men. You have jobs to do for this country, for _me_, and I'm not going to let something as trivial as this ruin that."

Both Sevier and Jackson looked like they hadn't quite calmed down, yet. Honestly, wasn't reason enough to get through such thick skulls? Apparently not.

"Alfred, move out of the way," said Jackson.

"This matter can't be settled unless you do," said Sevier.

Alfred gritted his teeth. Well, if reason was not to hold sway, then there were other methods. He could stand in their way all day, if he had to. They wouldn't be able to forcibly remove him - one of the perks of being the nation. "I will _not_," he said, stubborn petulance creeping into his voice. "You _will_ stop this nonsense, alright?"

"You can't-" Jackson began, but Alfred was far too worked up to let him finish.

"I _can_, because _I am the United States of America, and I will knock you both out if you don't listen to me!_"

For a moment, all was silent. Alfred directed his best glare in both directions, making it clear he was not going to give an inch, and he practically bristled with authority. And finally, Jackson, the initiator of the duel, took a step back. He snorted, handing off his pistol to his second.

"I can't very well argue with the people, can I?" he said, narrowing his eyes at Alfred for a moment before he looked around the nation at Sevier. "You won't always be so lucky as to have the country himself intervene. I suggest you keep your words to yourself from now on."

"I will if you will," Sevier growled.

As Jackson mounted his horse and rode off with his second, Alfred deflated, at last able to relax. "Damn," he said, thoroughly pleased with himself. "Pulling rank really takes it out of ya." He shot Sevier a stern glare, making it clear that half of the fault still lay with John as well. "I don't like having to do it, either."

"I apologize," Sevier said, a little sheepishly. "I didn't mean for you to find me here."

"Well, just make sure it doesn't happen again. I can't have my governors and justices shooting each other!" But Alfred lost his firm expression at once; such things were hard to maintain. "Now, I have somewhere to be this afternoon, but I haven't had a chance to offer you congratulations yet! Governor again!" He clapped the man on the back, grinning.

"Thank you," Sevier said with a smile; Alfred's mood was infectious. "But surely you didn't come all the way out here to congratulate me?"

"Well, I was kind of interested in how Tennessee's been running lately, but we can talk about that when you feed me something."

Sevier shook his head at the not-so-subtle hint, muttering something about being too old for all of this, and Alfred let his own cheerfulness increase in purposefully annoying leaps and bounds, chuckling to himself. It was the man's own fault for getting himself into duels - well, Jackson's too, but Alfred did _not_ feel like confronting that man any more than he had to - and as a result, John would have to put up with an exceptionally overenthusiastic nation today. Alfred would make sure of that.

* * *

><p><strong>Historical Notes:<strong>

1. John Sevier. Revolutionary War hero, Indian fighter, almost-founder of the almost-State of Franklin, first governor of Tennessee, one of Andrew Jackson's many rivals. Corresponded with folks like Ben Franklin, James Madison, Thomas Jefferson, and George Washington. Happens to be my great-great-great-great-great grandfather. (Not too sure on the number of greats, but you get the idea.)

2. A duel between Sevier and Jackson did almost happen. Sevier insulted Jackson's marriage in some fashion, Jackson challenged him to a duel, they showed up outside of Kingston, exchanged insults, and left without actually having the duel. Which is rather strange, so my Hetalia headcanon states that they didn't duel because Alfred was there as a mediator. No resources on what actually went down, so naturally most of this story is totally made up and blasphemous to actual history. The little facts here and there are true, though.

3. Like, there was almost a state called Franklin, an area that was given up and then reclaimed by North Carolina. Sevier was the governor. While he was fighting Indians, much of his property was confiscated for supposed tax reasons in North Carolina, and he fought for it, only to lose. And that was the beginning of the end of the State of Franklin. He was brought up on charges of treason for the incident, but they were later dropped. And after that, he was even elected from North Carolina as a Senator in the First U.S. Congress.

4. And as to Sevier and Jackson's rivalry, Sevier sought out the position of major-general of the Tennessee militia, only for the vote to come to a tie between him and Andrew Jackson. The tie was broken in Jackson's favor by a personal friend of Jackson, and Sevier and Jackson were forever enemies after that.


	5. Unsettling Revelations

**068. Unsettling Revelations  
><strong> _In which muckraking is discussed, and Alfred and his twenty-sixth President share a moment._

* * *

><p>With Alfred fidgeting uncomfortably before the desk, and Roosevelt seated behind it, leveling a suspicious glare at the young nation, the scene would have been reminiscent of a headmaster about to reprimand a student… had the desk not been situated in an incredibly important office and the man not been Theodore Roosevelt, twenty-sixth President of the United States. But as things stood, the situation might as well have been identical, and the folded magazine that rested upon the desk, emblazoned boldly with title 'SAVE OUR CHILDREN', could have easily been a report of uncommonly mischievous behavior.<p>

"I am not saying that you _shouldn't_, Alfred," the President said, arms folded, leaning on the desk and continuing to scrutinize the nation in a way that only Roosevelt could. "But you're getting as bad as the others."

Alfred could only squirm beneath his gaze. "Why are you so sure I wrote that?" he asked defensively.

Roosevelt's finger came to rest on the displayed page and tapped at the journalist's name - or rather, pseudonym. "Arthur Dirkland," he said flatly, clearly unimpressed with what Alfred considered to be great wittiness. "Really, my boy, you are exceedingly hopeless at times."

Alfred was trying to restrain the giggles threatening to escape him. If only his brother read these magazines… but he managed to pull a serious expression, facing his President with challenge in his posture. "It's just that one article!" he insisted.

Roosevelt turned the page, indicating the next title and author: 'Wages, and Why You Ain't Getting Them' by one Jefferson Hamilton. The President didn't look amused at that, either.

Oh, come _on_. Combining the names of two of history's biggest rivals was _hilarious_. Alfred was sure both of them were equally pissed at him right now, wherever they were watching him from Heaven, and he couldn't help the little snort that escaped him. "Just two, then," he said with a shrug. Totally convincing, right?

Roosevelt turned another page, sighing.

"Okay, three," Alfred admitted.

The President pulled _Cosmopolitan _out from under the first magazine.

"Maybe more than three!" Alfred said in surrender, raising his hands. Hmm… he hadn't expected anyone to catch on that fast, if at all. Maybe he hadn't been sneaky enough?

"Now I know why you haven't been pestering Congress lately," Roosevelt said; he managed to look both exasperated and slightly amused. And yet he didn't find Alfred's jokes funny. "I'm beginning to think you're forgetting that you have a _job_."

Alfred gave him the best earnest look he could muster; it wasn't difficult. "Fixing myself is my job!"

He received a sharp look in return. Roosevelt was back to scrutinizing him; the man laced his fingers together and contemplated the young nation in a way that made Alfred feel as if everything that was wrong with him was being dissected and brought forth, made clear by this man's gaze. The President knew what Alfred meant. He was a driven man, and though he and Alfred may not have agreed on every aspect of policy and procedure and diplomacy, Alfred knew that he understood.

"It is," Roosevelt finally said, nodding his head once in agreement. "But not to the point that all you can see is what needs to be fixed."

Alfred's head cocked to the side as he ran these words through his head, taking a moment to mull them over. "What do you mean?" he asked at length, frowning.

"You are a great country," Roosevelt said, very direct, surprising Alfred. "Flaws and all. You may have problems, boy, but so do we all. What matters is that you rise above them. And you as yourself have proven that you can fight them. If that is not great, then nothing is."

Maybe he understood more than Alfred had thought. The nation bit his lip and looked away, suddenly and uncharacteristically conscious of self. "Thanks," he murmured. If he was honest with himself... the words were reassuring. Enormously so. He'd been so motivated by and caught up in the new progressive movement sweeping his people that he hadn't given much thought to _why_ he'd personally invested himself in it to the degree he had. Maybe because if he stopped to think about why... he'd be overwhelmed by all the wrong he saw in himself.

Roosevelt brushed aside the thanks with a snort. "But if I catch you shirking your duties to go investigate some factory again..." he said threateningly, giving Alfred another glare, and he let the sentence trail off into the depths of the nation's imagination.

Alfred sighed petulantly. "But there's so much _dirt_ on these guys," he insisted, letting his eyes water for effect. "And I'm _awesome _at digging it up."

"There are plenty of these damned muckrakers around, and unlike you, it's _their_ job," Roosevelt replied, shaking his head; he wasn't giving in. "I don't need America himself turning into one of them. I'd like to at least believe I'm in charge."

"Sir, I don't think anyone has doubts about you being in charge," Alfred said with a grin. "You make it known, believe me."

"Out," Roosevelt said in return, trying to maintain his glare.

Alfred remained where he was, giving the President a hopeful smile. "Well, y'see, I was kinda hoping you could maybe _critique_ my articles, you being such a prolific writer and all..."

"Out," Roosevelt repeated, pointing to the door. "I've wasted enough time on you and your muckraking."

Alfred considered pushing the issue, just to see how far he could take it. But... not today. He was far too grateful today. He sighed. "Fine. I guess I'll go do my _job_." Which constituted an afternoon snack, first of all. And then perhaps a little more snooping, just to finish one last article he was trying to perfect. But he kept all thoughts of this from showing on his face as he cheerfully bid his President goodbye and exited the office.

And yet he still got the feeling that Roosevelt, whose knowing eyes followed him out, was aware of exactly what he was planning.

* * *

><p>It was later that day, in the evening, when a rolled-up magazine was mysteriously delivered to Alfred.<p>

A folded piece of paper protruded from within it, attached to one of the interior pages. Alfred opened the magazine and smiled to see that the page contained his own article. He took the loose paper and unfolded it, scanning the words inscribed in familiar handwriting.

_It's good. You're passionate about it, and you've got a fine grasp of detail and connecting with the reader. But your sentence structure could use a little work. You need a better flow to your words. Don't be afraid to create lengthy sentences - simply learn how to string them together in a way that doesn't lose the overall point._

_And for God's sake, stop using 'very' so much._

Alfred found himself chuckling. He refolded the paper, stuck it back among the pages, and tucked the magazine under his arm, grinning thoughtfully and heading to do a little revision on his newest piece.

* * *

><p><strong>Historical Notes:<br>**

1. 'Muckrakers' were journalists in the early 1900s who exposed many of the evils of American society (child labor, unfair wages, etc.). Unlike their predecessors, the 'yellow journalists', they did not do this for sensationalism and instead sought for the truth and often found it. They were, in part, responsible for the social reform of the Progressive era, bringing the ugly parts of society to light for the public to see. The term 'muckrakers' originated from a speech delivered by Theodore Roosevelt; he supported what they did, but was also sometimes annoyed by them. (He warned them about looking down at the 'muck' too much, to the point that they couldn't see anything else.) And in my headcanon, Alfred was indeed a muckraker.

2. Teddy Roosevelt was the 26th President of the United States. He was driven, charismatic, and exuberant, and because of his reform contributions to the Progressive movement, he is generally regarded as one of the greatest Presidents. He embodied the typical "cowboy" and had the tendency to do what he wanted; he gained quite the reputation as a "Rough Rider" during the Spanish-American War. He was also an outdoorsman and lead the conservation movement, and in addition, he was an excellent writer.

3. Interesting fact: the Oval Office was not built until Taft, Roosevelt's successor, took office.


End file.
